


library hours

by lolainslackss



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Wintry vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 11:56:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16534154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolainslackss/pseuds/lolainslackss
Summary: Andrew always sits across from the same guy in the library. The set-up suits him: they're both night owls, they're both relatively neat, and they both like the quiet. There's absolutely no need for them to get to know each other. This delicate balance shifts, however, when the guy sprains his ankle and Andrew finds himself breaking all his own rules and driving him to the emergency room.A wintry college AU featuring all-nighters, homemade sushi, copious amounts of coffee, and many mixed-up feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exybee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exybee/gifts).



> this one goes out to my love @exybee, whose birthday is tomorrow! happy bday u talented scorpio baby!
> 
> also ty to @moonix for fixing this up and generally being the bestest 24/7
> 
> [a wintry playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1170883658/playlist/3IYhGd6N1ToEJTmDeABarH?si=hBzBLDDFT_ujg96gQdXVjA)

It’s usually just the two of them at the table, but today there is a third.

The girl taps the space key on her laptop half a dozen times before pulling out a bag of crinkle-cut carrot sticks. She unzips the bag and plucks out a single stick with her thumb and index finger before biting down on it and releasing an almighty crunch.

Andrew narrows his eyes at the bag; there are about fifty carrot sticks in there. Who needs that many carrots? She tosses the rest of the first stick in her mouth and mashes it to pieces. Andrew sees brilliant flashes of orange as she opens and closes her mouth, apparently oblivious to the fact you’re supposed to keep it shut while you chew. She reaches out and grabs another stick and Andrew scrunches up his nose in annoyance. He hasn’t even looked down at his notes since she got here. He can’t actually believe it. Who the fuck brings carrot sticks to the library? He taps his pen against his notebook as he considers moving to the other side of the floor. He wonders if that’ll even help. Her deafening crunching will probably carry all the way across the entire fucking campus.

His eyes flick, momentarily, to the guy sitting across from him. He looks almost as annoyed as Andrew feels, his jaw working so hard that Andrew can basically hear the creaking grind of his teeth. Without turning his head, the guy’s cobalt-blue eyes narrow and flit to the side.

Another carrot, another _crunch_.

The guy sighs exaggeratedly, but the girl doesn’t take the hint.

This guy is there every day, just as Andrew is. His tan, which had been a deep, sunkissed bronze at the beginning of the semester, has now faded, revealing a strip of honeyed freckles sprawling across his nose and cheekbones. Similarly, his auburn hair has grown in from where it had been buzzed short at the sides. The loose curls look soft-to-the-touch, and clash quite spectacularly with the oversized red sweatshirt he’s wearing. Andrew doesn’t know his name - they’ve never spoken - but he’s somehow grown used to sharing his table with him. He refers to him as _Library Guy_ in his head, mostly because it’s simple, but also because all the other nicknames he came up were a bit too crude. Their set-up is very functional. They keep similar hours, turning up in the late afternoon and leaving near closing time. They’re also both quiet and neat. They study silently and don’t let their stuff spill into each other's space. They definitely don’t eat snacks loudly enough to disturb the entire universe.

Library Guy must feel the weight of Andrew’s gaze, because he looks up. They hold eye contact for a heartbeat before he shoots Andrew a look as if to say, _what the fuck?_ Andrew shrugs a tiny shrug and tries to get back to work. He has a four thousand word essay on Victorian gothic literature due and it’s not going to write itself, after all.

Miraculously, the girl zips up the bag of carrots and puts it in her backpack. Andrew has about five seconds to be thankful for the peace and quiet before she pulls out a fucking _apple_ and promptly bites into it, sucking on the juice as she pulls away.

“No offence,” Library Guy snaps, turning to face her, “but are you fucking kidding me?”

The girl wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and slides a cool gaze his way.

“What?” she asks, completely oblivious.

“First carrot sticks and now an apple?” he fires back, annoyed. “You’re disturbing everyone on this floor.”

“There’s no soft food rule here,” the girl replies, shrugging. “I’m pretty sure I can eat what I want.”

“It’s an unspoken rule, asshole,” he bites out, and _oh_.

 _Oh_.

It’s quite funny, Andrew thinks, pressing two fingers against his lips and turning away so he won’t be caught smirking. Library Guy went from passive aggressive to full-on aggressive in the span of about twenty seconds. What a difference an apple makes.

“You can’t call me that,” the girl says, flushing pink. Their table has drawn the attention and ire of pretty much everyone in the library now and the librarian starts marching in their direction.

Andrew snaps his fingers before his irate study buddy can cause any more trouble. “Cool down,” Andrew says. “Let’s take five. Get some coffee.”

“How’m I supposed to cool down if I’m drinking coffee?” Library Guy mutters, but he doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s probably in the same boat as Andrew: essays due and a string of all-nighters on the horizon. Neither of them can afford to be kicked out of the library right now.  

They quickly make their way downstairs and file inside the library café.

“I hope she’s gone by the time we get back,” Library Guy says, frowning.

“I think you calling her an asshole will have done the trick,” Andrew replies.

“She _was_ an asshole. Who eats food like that in the library?”

“Why didn’t you move?”

“Because it’s _my_ table. I sit there every day.”

“So territorial. It’s just a table.”

“‘Just a table’,” Library Guy repeats, unconvinced. “You sit there every day, too.”

Andrew orders his coffee - black, filter, extra hot - and contemplates that. He never thought of himself as a ritualistic person, but here he is. He has just ordered the same coffee he orders every day and then he’ll go and sit on the same stupid seat at the same stupid table and work until he’s nearly delirious from tiredness. These acts are as familiar to him as his morning cigarette (the one he smokes in the breakfast booth, blowing the smoke upwards and out of the window because Kevin hates the smell lingering in the dorm). They’re the same as his evenings spent playing video games with his brother and cousin, weekly therapy sessions or the weekend shifts he pulls at one of the nearby nightclubs. The easy routines make his life simple. They fill the space in between waking and sleeping. Quite honestly, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Simple is boring but it’s better than dead, he thinks, and just like that, all his earlier amusement is gone. Faded in a flash like champagne going flat. He takes his coffee and starts moving toward the exit.

“Wait- hey-” Library Guy calls after him, but Andrew ignores him.

In the end, they just share a table. It’s not like they’re friends.

 

...

 

The next day, it’s just the two of them again.

Andrew thinks about saying something, but doesn’t. He dumps his phone and a half-finished coffee on the table and pulls out his spiral-bound notebook. Renee bought him it for him last Christmas; it’s blue and holographic and it’s got a pink glittery cat sticking its tongue out on the front. He hates it.

Library Guy across from him is tapping away at his own phone, and Andrew realises then that they have the same model: a simple dark grey flip phone. Nicky is always rolling his eyes and whining whenever Andrew gets it out because Nicky wants to add him on Snapchat and Instagram and _why won’t you just get a smartphone, Andrew?_ Ugh. His phone is _fine_. It works, and that’s all that matters.

Technology doesn’t come that easy to him, if he’s honest. He didn’t grow up with his a phone or laptop. One of his foster homes had an ancient, beat-up PC in the cluttered backroom they called the study, but there were so many of them fighting over it that it just wasn’t worth waiting for a turn. Even now, he writes all his essays out on paper to type up later.

Library Guy snaps his phone shut and puts the phone down on the table, doing a double take when he sees an identical one sitting there. He looks up and his gaze bristles against Andrew’s own before he returns his attention to his equations or whatever terrible shit he’s working on. _Jinx_ , Andrew thinks, as he tries to focus on his essay.

They’re not joined by any obnoxious eaters that afternoon, and very swiftly, the day collapses into night. The days are shorter now that autumn has abruptly frozen into winter. Andrew puts in his headphones and scrolls through Spotify until he finds this wintery playlist Bee made for him a couple of years ago. It’s the kind of music that makes his body feel like a cave and echoes inside of him. Somehow, it helps him concentrate when the sky shifts to black and the library quietens down. A piano plinks to life and he looks out of the window. The string lights they’ve hung around the quad twinkle like sparse droplets of snow. He feels tired, energised, restless, everything all at once. It makes him all twitchy, like he needs to kick something. Maybe he’s just drunk too much coffee. Maybe he needs to take a break.

Over the next few hours, the third floor slowly empties. Eventually, the librarian approaches to tell them the library is closing.

“Fuck,” Library Guy says, the word coming out all heavy and coarse, bookended with breathiness. He leans back in his seat and lets his head loll from side to side before bringing a hand up to massage the back of his neck. He lets loose this rough, huffy groan that’s part-exhaustion, part-frustration.

It’s kind of hot, actually, and Andrew tilts his head to the side and wonders about that for a moment or two before trying to shake it away. Despite his best efforts, the thought is like an autumn leaf clinging onto his coat. Persistent.

“I have to finish this tonight,” he goes on, and Andrew’s not sure if he’s even talking to him or talking to himself, but for some inexplicable reason, he feels compelled to throw the guy a bone.

“I have access to the twenty-four hour science lab,” he says, offhand enough it might not even sound like an invitation.

“You do?” Library Guy says, looking at Andrew like it’s his birthday and Andrew’s the only one who’s bothered to show up with balloons.

Andrew reaches into his pocket and retrieves a small plastic keycard from his wallet. He flicks it across the table and Library Guy squints at it.

“This is you?” he asks, unconvinced. “You don’t take Bio.”

Andrew raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“Oh, I’ve seen the stacks of books,” Library Guy explains, rolling his eyes. “I’m not spying on your dull literature essays. Promise.”

Andrew blinks, amusement sparking in his chest for the second time in as many days. Alert the press; it’s a new record.

“My brother,” Andrew offers finally, dragging the card across the desk and slipping it back inside his wallet.

“You’re a twin.”

“They should give you harder equations to solve. You’re a genius.”

“Now, _that’s_ spying,” Library Guy quips, his lips curling into a smile. “Nosy.”

Andrew shrugs.

“So, can I come with you?” Library Guy is back-to-business.

Andrew had pilfered Aaron’s keycard for the twenty-four hour computer lab at the beginning of the semester. His brother had stomped around in a mood for two days straight before requesting another, but Andrew hung onto his loot, knowing he might need it at some point. His hair is shorter than Aaron’s is in the picture. All through his teenage years, Andrew had sported a buzzcut as it was the easiest hairstyle to maintain. Growing one out was hard, though, because it always entered this awkward stage where he couldn’t do anything with it except let it stick up straight. He’d always get irritated and just buzz it short again. This summer, though, he’d managed not to touch it, learned how to style it, and is now actually kind of satisfied with how it looks. Aaron, on the other hand, always lets his hair grow long before getting it cut. It’s nearly at his shoulders in the picture splashed across his keycard, but aside from that, they’re identical. Nobody checks the keycards that closely, anyway.

“If you want,” Andrew says, shrugging.  

They walk across the quad in silence, their breath coming out in white wisps that dissolve in milliseconds. It’s freezing, and Andrew nuzzles deeper into his scarf. Beside him, Library Guy looks unbothered by the cold. He’s not even wearing a jacket - just a track team hoodie with what Andrew assumes is his surname splayed across the back.

 _Josten_. Andrew sounds it out in his head, and then realises they’ve swapped names without meaning too, as Josten would have seen his and Aaron’s surname when he showed him the keycard.

They get into the computer lab without any issues. Andrew uses the card to open the door and nobody is at the front desk to check it a second time. There are a few other students scattered around the room, guzzling down energy drinks and staring at their computers with heavy-lidded eyes. Andrew rubs his own, which feel itchy and dry. He doesn’t need to look at his reflection to know there are shadows gathering there. Josten sits across from him, even though there are a zillion empty desks, and Andrew notices there are also dark circles lying under _his_ eyes. Despite that - and despite the harsh light in the computer lab - Josten somehow still looks good as he offers Andrew a grateful sliver of a smile.

Andrew nearly asks for his name, but leaves it. You don’t have to know someone’s full name to suggest blowing them in the library bathroom sometime, after all.

He nods and sits down. To be frank, he doesn’t have time to feel horny right now. He pushes the keyboard and mouse to the back of the desk and pulls out his half-written essay.

They both work until the sun comes up. Theoretically, that is, because the lab is a windowless hellhole.

Josten leaves first. He mutters a quiet _see ya_ as he goes that Andrew pretends to ignore. It shouldn’t matter. He’s just a guy. Just another student. But Andrew doesn’t have room in his life to _know_ another person. He doesn’t have room for _see ya_. He’s got his routines that make the weeks pass by without incident. He’s got his family, and his sour-faced roommate. He’s got Bee, who says she’s proud of all his progress in a voice that makes him feel like he’s drowning in reverse, coming up for air. Andrew doesn’t need small talk and goodbyes. He doesn’t need _friends_. He doesn’t need anything.

 

…

 

Andrew crawls into bed at nine in the morning - feeling like his brain has been turned inside out - and wakes a little after three. He can’t remember the last time he ate a proper meal so he trudges over to the kitchen and forces himself to chop some vegetables. He’ll decide what to do with them later. His phone - which he’d clipped to a charger in the lounge before flopping into bed - buzzes obnoxiously, and he extricates himself from mincing garlic to go fetch it.

He flips it open and crushes his thumb into the buttons, his fingers still stupid from sleep, and then he peers at the message that pops up.

 **Matt:** pulled another all-nighter, huh? let me know if u want late breakfast when u wake up lmao ;)

For a second, Andrew just thinks, _who the fuck is Matt and why is he offering to make me breakfast at whenever the fuck o’clock_? Then, he realises in one short burst: they picked up the wrong phones when they left the library. What a pair of morons.

He looks at the message for a minute longer than is necessary, contemplating the winky face and the very considerate offer. All signs point to boyfriend, he concludes, and well, _sure_. Having boyfriends is a thing normal people do, he knows that. He shouldn’t feel surprised. He certainly shouldn’t feel entitled to the disappointment creeping through him all of a sudden. _Not a fucking chance,_ he scolds himself, clicking away from the message and pulling up a new one.

He enters his own number and types, _you have my phone_ , before hitting send.

The reply comes a moment later.

 **Unknown:** _??? this is my phone_

Andrew tuts and replies, _check again_.

 **Unknown:** _Oh_. _You’re right. Who is this?_

Andrew has to stop himself from throwing the phone against the wall and sends, _who do you think?_

 **Unknown:** _Rude. See you at the library in a couple of hours?_

He contemplates leaving it at that, but confirms with a small, _ok_.

 **Unknown:** _:)_

Andrew narrows his eyes at the smiley face and goes back to preparing his lunch.

 

…

 

“Thanks,” Josten says, shoving his phone in his pocket without even looking at it. “I probably wouldn’t have noticed for like, a month.”

Andrew just stares at him.

“I didn’t realise you could save pictures on these,” Josten goes on. “You like memes?”

“Only the nihilistic ones,” Andrew answers, instantly regretting his reply and how much of a tool it makes him sound.  

“Matt is always sending me all this weird stuff he finds on Tumblr,” Josten continues, unfazed. “They’re pretty funny, I guess.”

 _Definitely_ a boyfriend, Andrew thinks. He sits down and flicks through his missed messages to kill time, not quite ready to face his essay yet.

“Anyway,” Josten says, leaning across the table, “let me buy you a coffee to say thanks.”

It’s an innocent offer, Andrew knows that, but his insides turn all liquidy anyway. The sudden, intense eye contact only makes it worse. He feels weak as fuck and _Jesus Christ, Minyard_ , he thinks. That’s what pretty boys _do_. They turn your gut into an aviary full of mad, squawking birds. It doesn’t remotely matter if he’s not interested in getting to know Josten; his dick functions on a different wavelength to his brain. He sighs, locks it all away, and offers Josten his blankest expression before nodding once. He’s the living, breathing embodiment of nonchalance.

Josten takes off and Andrew tries to focus on his piece-of-shit essay. He’s written about two thirds of the thing and hasn’t made even one good point. He frowns and considers putting it through the shredder before going back and rereading what he already has. Josten isn’t back by the time he’s done, which he supposes isn’t that unusual. There’s usually a small rush just before the café closes. The line can sometimes get a little long.

Andrew goes to bathroom and by the time he returns, Josten still isn’t back. All his shit is still strewn across his half of the table. Coloured gel pens and worksheets full of those equations that make Andrew’s brain hurt. His ugly track team hoodie is also still draped across the back of his chair. He can’t have taken off.

Maybe he bought snacks as well as the coffees and needs help carrying them or something, Andrew thinks. He inhales deeply and gets up. When he turns, he finds himself standing face-to-face with Carrot Girl. Andrew stares at her, wondering if she’s come to apologise for being a pain in the ass or tell him _Josten’s_ the pain in the ass, when he notices the worry etched in her eyes.

“You should probably come downstairs,” she says urgently. “Your um- your boyfriend tripped on the stairs and now he’s just sitting there, refusing any help. I don’t think he can stand. Maybe it’s a sprained ankle or something?”

The words cartwheel through his head before landing in an order that makes sense. Andrew doesn’t reply, not even to tell her thanks, and then he’s striding towards the stairwell. Sure enough, Josten is sitting at the bottom of the stairs, his knee bent and his hands wound tight around his ankle. A cluster of students stand around him. One in particular is trying to reason with Josten, his phone hovering next to his ear.

“I told you I don’t need an ambulance,” Josten snaps. “It’ll be fine in a second.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Andrew deadpans, crouching down beside him.

“I just twisted it a little,” Josten says. Panic flashes briefly in his blue eyes like a single strike of lightning.

“Can you stand?” Andrew asks. He doesn’t know why he’s even here; it’s not like the guy is his responsibility. Even as he thinks that, though, he’s winding his arm around Josten and hoisting him up. Josten winces as he puts weight on his right foot and he stumbles.

“Don’t make it worse,” Andrew grits out.

“It’s fine, I swear,” Josten mumbles, but he’s looking down at it like he’s watching a particularly gory scene in a slasher movie. He swallows, his face paling. “It has to be fine. I have a race this weekend.”

“Forget your stupid race,” Andrew tells him.

Josten ignores Andrew and tries to put his foot down on the ground. He can’t do it, and curses as he lets it dangle there.  

“Tough luck,” Andrew says, and promptly lifts him off the ground.

“Hey-!” Josten yelps as he’s spun sideways. “What are you doing?”

He’s not as light as he looks, Andrew thinks, and he supposes that should have been obvious. He has a runner’s physique: slender yet muscular. His thighs feel taut and hard against Andrew’s fingers and Andrew hasn’t touched another person in months. He can remember digging his nails into the flesh just below Roland’s hip and dragging _down_ so that the skin bloomed red. _Not the time,_ he reminds himself, taking off down the stairs with a squirming Josten in his arms.

“You don’t have to do this,” Josten says as they reach the quad. “I can just call a cab or something.”

Andrew just shakes his head and makes his way to the student parking lot. He bundles Josten into the passenger side seat of his car, leaves him burbling his protests for five minutes while he goes to grab their stuff, and well, then he’s really doing it. He’s driving someone he barely knows to the hospital. Something like that breaks all his own rules about other people and letting them into his life, but he supposes he’ll never cut loose those self-destructive tendencies. He flexes his fingers against the wheel before speeding out of the parking lot.

Josten complains about having to miss his stupid track meet for most of the drive, eventually shutting up when Andrew pointedly turns up the volume on the radio. They make it to the hospital and Andrew helps Josten into one of the blue plastic waiting room seats before heading to the front desk.

“I have someone with me who has injured their ankle,” Andrew explains.

“Name?” The receptionist asks without even looking up from her computer screen.

 _Right_. Obviously.

Andrew sighs and trudges across the waiting room.

“What’s your name?” he asks, the question feeling too intimate and every second of silence that follows it feeling too long.

“Neil Abram Josten,” is the answer he gets. Andrew passes it onto the nurse and wishes it would erase itself from his brain. It’s the prettiest thing he’s ever heard and he hates himself for just thinking it, the syllables neatly lining up in his head like the numbers and letters of a complicated equation.

He takes a seat next to Neil because he’s not sure what else he’s supposed to do. He could leave if he wanted to, but he feels annoyingly moored to the entire situation.

Neil’s expression is calm. Almost deliberately so. He’s digging his thumb into the now-swollen part of his ankle, as if he can make it better just by poking at it.

“Stop it,” Andrew tells him, scowling.

“Sorry,” Neil says, quickly withdrawing his hand.

“Don’t apologise to me,” Andrew says, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.

“Sorry,” Neil says again, and then winces. “I’m not- I’m not good with hospitals.”

 _Hence the freakout_ , Andrew thinks, as he remembers Neil’s earlier panic in the stairwell. It dawns on him then that maybe he made the wrong decision bringing Neil to the hospital. He doesn’t know what past trauma he’s dealing with. He’s just about keeping himself from spiralling into his own black hole studded with ugly memories.

“Me neither,” he mutters, digging his fingernails into the sleeve of his jacket.

Neil opens his mouth to reply, but then his name is called and he’s ushered along a hallway until he’s out of Andrew’s sight. Andrew sighs and leans back in his seat. The hospital smell weighs down on him oppressively. It’s sour and stale and it doesn’t remind him of anything good. He wanders out to the parking lot and finds the smoking area before pulling out a cigarette.

It’s cold out and he lights his cigarette with numb, bluish fingers. The last of autumn’s pale yellow leaves drift down from the trees and litter the ground. Above their mostly bare branches, the sky shifts from peach to lavender to amethyst. When he breathes out, the smoke from his cigarette curls into what looks like question marks.

It’s such a precarious thing to know another person, he knows that. It’s messy and complicated. Like trying to untangle a year’s worth of knots out of a string of Christmas lights. If he’s learnt one thing by now, it’s that trying is more trouble than it’s worth.

“Hey.” The sound of Neil’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “I was looking for you.”

Andrew considers him a moment before crushing his cigarette into the cluster of wet stubs collected in the ashtray. His hands are still freezing and tremble a little as he lets go.

“I thought you might have left,” Neil continues. “Which you totally could have by the way. I would have gotten the bus or something.”

Andrew looks at Neil’s giant crutch and raises his eyebrows as if to say, _really?_

“I sprained it,” Neil explains, gesturing for a cigarette, which is weird, because for the few months they’ve studied across from each other, Andrew has never seen him take a smoke break.

“No race, then,” Andrew comments.

“I’m still hopeful about that,” Neil says in between drags before passing the cigarette back to Andrew.

They don’t stick around for long after it’s gone out. Andrew helps Neil into his car and then dumps the crutch in the backseat.

“How come you study literature?” Neil asks once Andrew pulls out of the lot.

“I like reading,” he says, adjusting the heat controls. The windows have steamed up a little, but at least his hands have thawed.

“Why? Because you like to escape into a good story?” Neil goes on, his tone a little teasing.

Andrew doesn’t want to tell him _yes_ , _exactly_. Reading lets him do the impossible: it lets him escape from himself. Like meticulously planning out his day so that he never has a spare moment alone with his thoughts, it’s also the ultimate time killer.

“It’s fixed,” he says instead. “You can revisit a book a thousand times and it still says the same thing.”

“But you might notice something new, right?” Neil asks with a smile.

“Where should I drop you off?” Andrew asks in lieu of replying.

“Is Baudelaire okay?” Neil answers. He’s spent the last minute tracing his name in the fogged-up glass. His fingers are long and elegant and Andrew can’t stop thinking about them.

Andrew pulls in at the side of the road opposite Baudelaire house. Neil thanks him over and over as Andrew yanks him out of the car and hands him his crutch. He’s so sincere it makes Andrew want to throw up.

“You can go home,” Neil insists. “I can take it from here, promise.”

“If you do that, you’ll probably fall down the stairs again,” Andrew answers. “Come on.”

Neil makes a big deal of getting up three flights of stairs all by himself before giving in and accepting Andrew’s help. They make it to Neil’s dorm and Andrew carefully unsticks his arm from around Neil’s waist as Neil starts rummaging through his backpack for his keys. He curses twice before the door opens, revealing a tall, spiky-haired guy who takes one look at the crutch and groans.

“Neil, _honey_ , what on earth have you done to yourself?” The guy says, stepping aside so that Neil can hobble inside.

Andrew considers the pet name for a second before concluding this must be Neil’s Matt.

“I fell,” Neil mutters on his way past. “Sprained my ankle.”

“And who’s this?” Matt asks, turning to look at Andrew. He forces a smile, but there’s a peculiar look in his eye, like he finds Andrew’s presence puzzling.

“Oh-” Neil says. “This is my- um, my friend from the library. It’s-”

“Andrew,” Andrew supplies eventually, “and we’re not friends. We just study at the same table.”

“Okay. Right,” Matt replies awkwardly, looking between Neil and Andrew.

Andrew frowns. He was just trying to tell the truth. He hadn’t been trying to explain to Matt that there was nothing going on between himself and Neil but it sure came out that way, and Shakespeare himself said it best about protesting too much. Andrew wonders if tacking on, _and I’m not thinking about fucking him, so you don’t have to worry about that_ would be even more transparent, but the truth is, he definitely _is_ thinking about that. Repeatedly. And so, since he isn’t in the business of lying for no reason, he keeps quiet.

“ _Andrew_ took me to the hospital and then drove me back here,” Neil tells Matt.

“Cool,” Matt says, watching Andrew with that strange look in his eye again. “Well, friend or no friend, thanks for taking care of him. Not everyone would go out of their way to do that. You’re a good person.”

Andrew snorts. “Yeah, I’m a regular Mother Teresa. Just tell your boyfriend to watch what he’s doing in future.”

Matt laughs and Neil opens his mouth to respond, but neither of them have to go on, because at that moment, a girl holding a bowl of popcorn emerges from a nearby bedroom door. She’s dressed in a gigantic t-shirt that hangs off her shoulder, exposing a trail of burgundy wine hickeys.

“What’s the hold-up?” She asks, before looking from Matt to Neil to Andrew and wrinkling her nose. “Who’s that? And what the fuck happened to Neil?”

“Oh, sweetie,” Matt says, still grinning, “this is Andrew, Neil’s _friend_ from the library. Neil fell and hurt his ankle and Andrew took care of him and brought him home to us. Isn’t that nice?”

“Uh,” Neil says. “This is Dan, Matt’s girlfriend.”

“I figured,” Andrew mutters, suddenly wishing he’d been the one to fall down the stairs.

“He thought Neil and I were dating,” Matt whispers to Dan, loud enough for them both to hear.

“Oh, bless him,” Dan says, shooting Andrew a look that makes him want to strangle them both.

“We’re not,” Neil blurts out. “Dating, that is.”

“Obviously,” Andrew replies blandly.

“Um. We’re going to go watch the rest of the movie,” Matt says, stuffing a fistful of popcorn in his mouth before hurriedly ushering Dan inside his room.

The door clicks shut and Neil fiddles with the handle of his crutch as he watches Andrew.

“So, anyway, Matt was right,” Neil says eventually. “You didn’t have to go out of your way today.”

Andrew shrugs and looks away.

“I know this isn’t really enough to repay you, but I’ll bring us lunch tomorrow,” Neil tells him. “To the library?”

“Fine,” Andrew says, because he _knows_. He knows he’s not going to be able to retreat at this point. It’s gone too far and now he’s falling off the edge he’s been so stubbornly clinging to.

“What sandwiches do you like?” Neil asks.

“Nutella,” Andrew replies without having to think about it.

Neil grins and nods and that’s it. Andrew is doomed. He’s tumbling through the air to meet an inevitable messy end.

He walks back downstairs feeling like king of the idiots and climbs into his car. He sighs and leans against the headrest. His neck feels stiff and tense so he turns his head this way and that to undo the knots in his muscles.

He tilts his head all the way to the right and sees the name _Neil_ still sprawling across the passenger-side window in clumsy cursive script. Andrew sighs and leans over to wipe it away.

Through the smear, Andrew sees that it has started to snow.


	2. Chapter 2

Andrew ends up back at the Baudelaire building the next afternoon because the mental image of Neil Josten hauling himself to the library through the thicket of snow that’s gathered overnight is almost too pathetic to bear.

Neil freezes briefly when he notices Andrew’s car but he doesn’t say anything as he struggles into the passenger seat. For once, he’s wearing weather-appropriate clothes, including lace-up boots and a parka with a fuzzy hood as well as a scarf and matching mittens in a painfully bright shade of fuchsia.

“Matt made them,” Neil announces, gesturing to the knitwear.

“Incredible,” Andrew replies, starting the car.

The drive to the library is a short one, but Neil peppers the silence with questions and anecdotes. He shuts up once they’re at their usual table and gets to work, but Andrew feels too distracted by Neil’s very presence to write his essay. He goes for a walk around the aisles to clear his head, but when he returns to the table, he feels more worked up than ever. Now that he knows Neil isn’t in a relationship, there’s nothing stopping him from proposing _something_ or other, but he hasn’t worked out the logistics yet. He doesn’t know what he wants, and he doesn’t know how to go about asking for it. Historically, bluntness has always worked in his favour. It was exactly how he had seduced Roland, but then, Roland had been extremely easy to read. He had been flirtatious from the start, with soft-spoken asides and knowing, lingering looks. In comparison, Neil is much harder to figure out.

Neil yawns and leans back and literally everything about him is a turn-on. Andrew can see the elegant groove of his collarbone poking out from the translucent white cotton of his t-shirt and he notices the inviting slopes of Neil’s muscles as he stretches his arms above his head. His hair is floppy and stupid and swishes this way and that when he moves and his skin is dotted with these ludicrously-placed chocolate-brown freckles. His voice is nice and he smells nice and the way he nibbles his pen in between equations is _nice_ and fuck this guy, Andrew thinks. He stops staring and pulls Aaron’s old iPad out of his bag and selects a game at random, hoping that playing it will obliterate every terrible thought he’s having about Neil Josten.

“How much time have you spent working on your essay?” Neil asks after a little while.

“Not as much as I have trying to find stuff for these dumb animals,” Andrew mutters. “This one wants a pear and is standing right next to a fucking pear tree.”

Neil laughs and gets back to work and Andrew supposes he should do something productive too. He puts in his headphones and gets out his essay and tries not to think about the boy sitting across from him.

It’s very nearly almost possible.

 

…

 

Every day that week, Andrew pulls up to Baudelaire house and he drives Neil to the library. Andrew helps Neil navigate the stairs and they both give the finger to anyone rude enough to push past them. Andrew does all the coffee runs and Neil brings the lunches and they take breaks in between studying to talk about things that don’t really matter, like movie franchises and where to buy the best sushi.

Friday comes, and Andrew is restless. He’s nearly finished his essay; all he has to do is cobble together a conclusion and do the laborious task of listing his sources, but he decides he’ll do that on Monday. It’s been a long week and he’s already mentally checked out.

Neil’s ankle isn’t any better and he’s in a bad mood because he’s finally accepted the fact that he _is_ going to miss his race. He swallows a painkiller with a mouthful of water before checking his phone and frowning.

“Matt and Dan have gone away for the weekend,” he mutters. “They’re visiting Matt’s mom.”

“So?” Andrew prompts, stuffing his essay in his bag so hard it crumples.

“So nothing,” Neil replies, snapping his phone shut.

“Evidently,” Andrew says, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, we usually have dinner together on Friday nights,” Neil explains. “I mean, I don’t care they’re doing their own thing, but I was kind of looking forward to it, you know?”

“No,” Andrew says, causing Neil to roll his eyes.

“How do you usually spend your Friday nights, then?” Neil asks.

“Sometimes I work,” Andrew answers, shrugging. “Sometimes I go for a drink.”

Neil hums and looks past Andrew to the quad. It’s snowing again, the swirling scraps flurrying past the window like bits of torn paper. The third floor has emptied but for the two of them. The lights between the bookcases are dim and orange and a nearby heater blows a mist of hot air in their direction. It’s almost cosy, Andrew thinks, watching Neil watch the snow fall. They’re so close, sat the way they are, with their hands atop the desk millimetres away from one another and their knees nearly knocking together.

“So are you working tonight?” Neil asks all of a sudden.

“Not tonight.”

“Then are we going for a drink?”

“While you’re loopy on pain meds? That’s sensible.”

“I’m not _loopy_ on pain meds. They’re not exactly strong.”

“If you say so.”

“Then are we?”

“Are we what?”

“Going for a drink?”

“If you want,” Andrew replies, as there’s no point trying to deny the inevitable. When he scooped Neil Josten up in his arms and took him to the hospital, some part of him probably knew that it would eventually lead to them doing tequila shots in one of the grimier campus bars, and he did it anyway. It hasn’t taken long for Neil to carve a hole in his life and occupy it neatly, as if he’d been there all along. He just hopes he doesn’t feel the hole’s emptiness too acutely when Neil eventually goes away.

They slowly trudge across campus and squeeze into a crowded bar. Andrew shoves people out of the way so Neil has a clear path to get over to the tiny and miraculously spare table that Andrew finds for them. They knock back a couple of whiskies and Neil cheers up a bit. Andrew thinks about the back room where he sometimes makes out with Roland and how it’s probably empty right now and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He still doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing and he sure as fuck doesn’t know what the hell Neil’s thinking.

All he knows is that Neil is here and for now, he’s sticking around. What that means, Andrew can’t quite figure out just yet.

He could just ask, of course. Not even, _are you interested in me?_ He could just ask, _are you interested in men?_

How incredibly subtle _that_ would be.

“If the world went to shit, what would you do?” Neil was asking him, because he’d somehow gone from talking shit about Marvel movies to speculating about potential dystopian futures.

“Survive,” Andrew replies, shrugging.

“Alone or in a group?” Neil asks.

“You mean, would I waste my time protecting anyone?” Andrew corrects him.

Neil shrugs and smiles.

Andrew wants to tell Neil _no._ Saving people isn’t worth the hassle. Some people will just be ungrateful and others don’t deserve saving in the first place. That said, Andrew mentally ticks off the names on a very short list of the people he’d save.

The list of people he’d sooner throw to the wolves is longer.

“I’d save a handful,” he tells Neil, “but the moment they start whining, they’re out.”

“And who’s going to save you?” Neil counters, smirking.

“Nobody,” Andrew answers, raising his glass to his lips. “Someone would have to think I was worth a damn for that to happen.”

Neil’s smirk vanishes in an instant but he doesn’t look away. Andrew’s tongue has been slackened by the whiskey and a week’s-worth of confused feelings and now he’s saying things he probably shouldn’t say outside of therapy. When Neil doesn’t reply for a little while, Andrew goes to get them another round of drinks. Neil sips his, looking thoughtful.

“You’re worth more than that,” Neil says eventually, just as Andrew thinks the mood has soured for good. The words ignite a forgotten flame inside of him that he puts out immediately. “You’re worth more than all of them combined.”

Andrew doesn’t know who Neil’s talking about when he says _them_ , but the sentiment hits him harder than he cares for. The flame inside of him is a trick birthday candle; it flickers back to life every time he thinks he’s killed it for good.

“Stop it,” Andrew says.

“I’m not doing anything,” Neil says, and his smirk is back. He moves on quickly and starts talking about all the different-yet-equally-terrible dorms he’s lived in over the years and it’s as if he’s actually having fun.

It’s not until much later, when Andrew is lying in bed staring at the ceiling, that he realises he may have been as well.

 

…

 

 **Neil:** D & M away all weekend btw

 **Andrew:** and?

 **Neil:** and i thought you might want to come over. guess not. oh well...

 **Andrew:** do your cookery skills start and end with nutella sandwiches or?

 **Neil:** kind of but i’ll see what i can do

 **Neil:** only because it’s you

Pathetic as it is, Andrew watches the screen to see if another text will come through. A minute passes. Nearly two.

 **Neil:** because you’ve been helping me out so much

Andrew stares blankly at the message, wondering if it warrants a response. He’s still feeling all mixed-up, torn between wanting Neil and not wanting anything. What’s going on between them has become bigger than simply Andrew helping Neil out while he’s injured. They’re slowly getting to know each other. Peeling away the band-aids to peek at what’s hiding underneath. Andrew wonders if what Neil sees will chase him away.

He borrows one of Aaron’s dark blue Fair Isle sweaters because all his old band tees look stupid and juvenile to him all of a sudden. Aaron, stupefied as usual, asks him what’s going on but Andrew just shuts the door in his face. He pairs the sweater with some skinny jeans that are busted at the knees and he combs through his hair and parts it at the side, smoothing a little styling gel through it so that it swooshes over to the right. He scowls at his reflection before he leaves.

Naturally, he drives straight over to Neil’s without thinking about picking up a dessert or a bottle of wine or anything. He dithers at the doorway for a minute or two before getting back in his car and driving to the on-campus convenience store to grab some bits and pieces.

Neil answers the door looking a little flustered and hurries back into the kitchen as fast as he can on his crutch. Andrew slowly hangs up his jacket and toes out of his shoes before following him.

“ _What_ are you making?” he asks, leaning against the door frame and inspecting the mess.

“Um,” Neil answers, twirling around wielding a wooden spoon in one hand and a sharp knife in the other, “I’m trying to make sushi.”

“From scratch?” Andrew asks in disbelief.

“From scratch,” Neil agrees, sounding uncertain. “You look nice.”

“Nice?”

“I would have tried to think of a better word than nice, but I’m a bit distracted right now.”

Andrew looks around the kitchen; there are veggies chopped into thin strips lined up on a chopping board and a pan of rice bubbling away on the stove. “I can do something,” he says begrudgingly.

“It’s fine,” Neil replies, rolling chunks of sweet potato in pale breadcrumbs. “You can keep me company though.”

So he does, and they drink wine as Neil arranges the rice and veggies on a cheap bamboo rolling mat he admits to buying earlier that day. He chops the giant sushi roll carefully and places the pieces in a circle on a large platter before pouring soy sauce into a mug because he can’t find an appropriate saucer.

They sit on the carpet in the lounge and eat, both of them trying to show the other how amazing they are at using chopsticks. The wine disappears at the same rate as the sushi and then Neil goes to get the chocolate chip cookies Andrew brought for dessert. They nibble at the cookies and swap stories about their annoying professors and, not for the first time, Andrew wonders if they’re on a date. He toys with the idea of asking the question out loud, but in the end, he figures he needs to listen to his gut. Neil invited him over and made him one of his favourite foods and keeps looking at him like he’s the greatest person he’s ever met and if it’s _not_ a date, what the fuck is it?

“Want to see my room?” Neil asks, stumbling a little as he gets to his feet.

Andrew shrugs and follows Neil to his room, which is tinier than his own. There’s a fluffy rug, a single bed, and a small collection of pictures tacked to the wall. Most of them are of Neil, Dan and Matt. Sometimes a second girl is in the pictures. In one, Renee smiles serenely at him. It’s eerie, and Andrew wonders if it’s a stroke of luck or a bad omen.

“You know Renee,” he murmurs, pointing at the picture.

“Not really,” Neil replies. “She’s a friend of Dan’s? Through Allison, I think. I don’t know her that well.”

Neil switches on a nearby lamp and sits down on the bed. Andrew hears the creak of the springs cut through the quiet and feels something like a thunderclap in his chest. It’s happening. Maybe. Potentially. He doesn’t know for sure.

He turns slowly and joins Neil on the bed. They sit across from each other, cross-legged and silent. Neil’s eyes are clear, like rock pools on a sunny day, and they keep darting to Andrew’s lips. He’s nimble in his thievery, stealing glances so fast Andrew’s not sure if it’s even happening. Andrew wets his own lips and something akin to desperation cloys through him. He’s suddenly so sick of waiting.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Andrew asks.

Neil exhales a rough breath and smiles. “Only if you want to kiss me,” he says.

Andrew reaches out and grazes Neil’s jaw with his fingers before yanking him close. The kiss is clumsy at first, probably because they’re both a little rusty, but once their mouths part they find a workable rhythm. Andrew cups Neil’s face with one hand and reaches down to trap Neil’s hands in his lap with the other. Neil doesn’t seem to mind; he just kisses Andrew more urgently. They pause, momentarily, and Neil releases this sigh, like all the air has escaped from his lungs, and he chases Andrew’s lips with his own. Andrew lets him resume the kiss, easing his mouth open so that it deepens. Neil presses back firmly, his hands fidgeting in his lap. Andrew can feel every atom in his body crackle and spark with _want_. He wants to close the gap between their bodies, and he wants to touch and to be touched.

The sudden tidal wave of longing brings with it a sense of dread. As if he were underwater, he feels the need to gasp for oxygen. He tries to ignore it, squash it down, and focus on Neil, who is kissing him like his heart will give out if he stops-

But Andrew _can’t_.

He abruptly stands up and Neil just watches him, his lips parted and flushed red from kissing. It’s too much, and Andrew takes a step back before crouching down on the rug and putting his head in his hands. Neil waits, and when Andrew finally peers up at him, he’s looking at Andrew as if to say, _it’s okay_ , and that’s exactly why Andrew shouldn’t have done this.

He knew from the start that he didn’t have room in his life for something like this. He didn’t want to know Neil or to ever let him come so close, but beneath that is something more. It’s precarious to know another person, yes, but it also feels dangerous to be _known_. To be known is to be misinterpreted. He becomes either a thing to be used as a means to an end, or else cast aside. Never important enough to be held onto.

Neil moves closer, deliberately not touching him, but hovering close enough as if to say, _I’m here_. Andrew breathes in and out and wonders, briefly, if they could stay in that position forever: him, crouched and frozen - a mess - and Neil curved protectively around him. He wonders, even more briefly, if this is the worst way to be known: when someone really sees you, _really_ sees you and how irreparably broken you really are, and still looks at you like you’re all they need.

Definitely the worst, he decides, when he looks up and ends up recoiling from the tenderness in Neil’s eyes.

He gets to his feet and wordlessly leaves the room, slipping into his shoes and grabbing his jacket on the way out.

Unsurprisingly, Neil doesn’t follow him.

 

…

 

Andrew spends Sunday in the bath. Whenever the water cools, he just tops it up from the faucet. It’s nearly overflowing by the time Aaron loses his shit.

“Get out of there,” Aaron shouts through the door, banging on it so hard that it rattles in its frame. Andrew rolls his eyes and deftly pulls out the plug with his toe before getting up. His skin is pink and puckered from soaking for so long, and he immediately bundles himself into an oversized bathrobe without properly drying himself before opening the door.

“Don’t pull this shit again,” Aaron hisses at him as he follows him down the hallway.

“So dramatic,” Andrew drawls. “I was only having a bath.”

“Don’t give me that,” Aaron says, shaking his head. “We had an agreement, remember? If you need help, you need to tell me.”

“I _will_ ,” Andrew says, narrowing his eyes at his brother. “I’m going to bed.”

“Lying in bed all day is just as bad as lying in a fucking lukewarm bath all day,” Aaron replies, sounding exasperated.

Andrew doesn’t reply.

“I know you,” Aaron tries, but his voice has lost all its heat.

“It’s just a bad day. Sunday blues, you know?” Andrew bites out, flashing Aaron a grin that’s all teeth.

“My ass,” Aaron replies, looking away.

“I’m not going to hurt myself,” Andrew tells him, hoping that will shut him up, before trudging inside his room and slamming the door.

He smokes a cigarette without even bothering to open the window. Like the day he’s just had, he supposes Kevin’s wrath will be survivable.

 

…

 

Monday comes and the table is, of course, empty.

Andrew puts down his stuff and sits. His essay is nearly done but finishing it seems impossible to him. He wouldn’t have even bothered coming to the library, but spending another day in bed would have just worked Aaron up again, and besides, he and Bee decided that was the kind of thing he should probably avoid. So he grabs the creased essay out of his bag and stares at the words untidily scrawled across the page so he won’t have to look at the empty chair sitting across from him.

Its emptiness is painfully palpable though, and it becomes so unbearable that he’s filled with the urge to run down the stairs, get inside his car, drive all the way to the Baudelaire building, and storm inside Neil’s dorm. Just as he’s about to get to his feet, Matt plops down into Neil’s usual seat and beams at him.

“Andrew,” he says, as if Andrew’s an old friend of his or something. “How are you doing?”

“Peachy,” Andrew grits out, settling back into his chair.

“Glad to hear it,” Matt says. “Is Neil around?”

“You should know,” Andrew mutters, looking down at his essay. “You live with the guy.”

“I saw him this morning before I went to class,” Matt replies, “but I thought he’d probably be here around this time. You guys study here every day, right?”

“Most days,” Andrew answers with a shrug.

“I’m happy he’s found you,” Matt tells him, resting his chin in his hands. “I worry about him sometimes, you know?”

“Not really,” Andrew says, finally looking up at Matt.

“He has such a hard time letting people in,” Matt says, a tiny crinkle appearing on his forehead, “but you two are close, aren’t you?”

“A hard time letting people in,” Andrew repeats, thinking about how easily he and Neil have slotted into each other’s lives and how talkative and annoying Neil can be when he gets going. He imagines Neil as this track team superstar, surrounded by friends who are utterly charmed by him. What Matt was saying didn’t make a lot of sense.  

“Yeah, you get it,” Matt goes on. “I was shocked he’d made a new friend. As far as I know, me and Dan are the only two he’s got. Well, until now.”

Andrew steeples his fingers and thinks. He’s never seen Neil hanging around with anyone else - the only person he’s seen Neil interact with at the library had been Carrot Girl and he’d pretty much bitten her head off. He thinks about the night he’d gone home with Neil’s phone; there had been only one message from Matt the next day, and when he’d returned it, Neil had said, _I probably wouldn’t have noticed for like, a month_. Then, Andrew thinks back to the pictures on Neil’s wall. There were only a handful, most of them featuring Matt and Dan.

Finally, Andrew thinks about how he’d driven Neil to the hospital, and then to and from the library each day since. Neil hadn’t called anyone else for help because there hadn’t _been_ anyone else.

Maybe they were the same. Maybe Neil Josten had unscalable walls up, just as Andrew did. Maybe Neil had worried about letting Andrew into his life, and had also felt the undeniable magnetic pull between them and thought, _I’m screwed_. _This is it_.

Andrew didn’t like maybes.

“Why?” Andrew asks, the word tumbling out of him like the first drop of rain in a storm.

“Why?” Matt repeats, looking confused. “You haven’t um- you haven’t talked?”

Andrew shakes his head.

“Well, it’s not my story to tell,” Matt says. His look turns dark and faraway for a second as he drums his fingers against the table. “You’d better ask him.”

Andrew doesn’t need to be told twice. He stuffs his essay into his bag, saying fuck you to that midnight deadline as he does so, and he takes off down the library stairs.

Neil looks tired when he answers the door, and for a minute or two, they just stare at each other.

“How long have you got?” Neil asks eventually, laughing humourlessly around the question, which is drenched in ghosts of the past.

They both know Andrew doesn’t need to reply, so he doesn’t, and Neil twists round on his crutch to let Andrew pass through the open door.

They stay up all night, and when it’s Andrew’s turn to speak, the story comes out in broken bits and pieces. The words are sharp in his throat, like fragments of black ice, but Neil doesn’t look away, or leave when it’s over.

Eventually, the sun comes up, filtering through the leaves on the trees outside Neil’s window and dappling the carpet with scraps of shadow.

“Stay?” Neil asks, rubbing his eyes. “To sleep?”

“Okay,” Andrew replies, because the walls are well and truly breached now. He knows, and he is known, and it doesn’t feel wrong, or like the world is on fire. It feels like being chosen, being found. Or maybe even like being someone’s from the start.

Neil closes the curtains, shutting out the light, and climbs into bed beside him. When they fall asleep, it’s with their hands lightly entwined.

 

**…**

**…**

**…**

 

Winter digs its claws into Spring and refuses to let go, so the air is crisp and chilly as the flowers begin to bloom across campus. Because he can’t find any of his normal things, Andrew wears the blindingly lime-green mittens and matching scarf Matt had knitted for him over Christmas break. He tries not to feel too much like Kermit the Frog while wearing them.

He walks to the race track with Aaron, Kevin and Nicky, and they make their way over to Dan and Matt, who have saved their group an entire row of seats.

“Andrew,” Renee calls to him from the far-side of their row. “Hello.”

“Hey,” he says, his gaze sneaking towards the girl on her left. He recognises Allison from the pictures in Neil’s room, but incidentally, when he’d mentioned Allison to Renee the last time they’d had coffee, she’d blushed five different shades of pink. That’s more than enough to pique his interest. He watches them out of the corner of his eye and wonders, but then he hears the bang of the starting pistol and he has something else to focus on.

Neil runs, and it’s hard to tell he has just recovered from an injury because he moves ahead of the other runners within seconds. His legs look graceful and strong as they carry him around the track and Andrew has to stop himself from thinking about the way they were wrapped around his waist only last night.

“He’s fast,” Kevin murmurs at Andrew’s side.

“Don’t even think about it,” Andrew warns.

“What?” Kevin asks, shooting him an annoyed look.

“He doesn’t want to join your terrible soccer team,” Andrew continues.

“Well maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible if _he_ were on it,” Kevin mutters under his breath.

Andrew considers jabbing him in the ribs with his thumb to shut him up, but he gets distracted by Neil nearing the finish line.

Beside him, Matt and Dan start cheering and throwing their arms up in the air as Allison slings her arm around Renee’s shoulders and whoops loudly. To Andrew’s right, Nicky nudges Kevin and grins. Even Aaron has the decency to look mildly impressed.

The nine of them somehow end up heading to one of the on-campus cafeterias for breakfast, and Andrew piles his plate high with Danish pastries as Neil distributes the coffees.

“How are you two spending your Saturday, then?” Dan asks, brandishing a teaspoon at Neil and Andrew.

“Actually,” Neil says, grinning sheepishly, “we’re going to the library.”

“The library?” Allison repeats, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “On a Saturday? After you _just_ won your first race after recovering from a badly-sprained ankle? Sounds legit.”

“Well, I’m behind because I’ve been training,” Neil explains, “and Andrew failed that class because he didn’t turn in his essay on time, so he has a ton of work to do to make up for it.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Nicky says, shoving half a raspberry croissant in his mouth. “Though I guess study dates have their perks.”

Andrew just shrugs and sips his coffee, but later, when he has Neil pressed up against one of the bookshelves with his hands up his shirt and his mouth firmly against his neck, he’s inclined to agree with Nicky.

There are definite perks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew was playing animal crossing: pocket camp bc I think he'd really like it

**Author's Note:**

> I have [tumblr](http://lolainslackss.tumblr.com)! come chat to me and/or let me know if u spot any sneaky mistakes


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